


All I Want

by seaofanxiety



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cousin Incest, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Healing, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-28 09:47:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaofanxiety/pseuds/seaofanxiety
Summary: The road to recovery is difficult, to say the least.  Unfortunately for T'Challa, Erik Killmonger has a disposition of difficulty.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Все, чего я хочу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978635) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)



> this movie inspired and gave me the motivation to write again and after consuming all the fics that i possibly can, i am here to create my own story for these two. their chemistry and complex relationship interest me and motivate me to write and explore into their relationship deeper. i do not support, nor do i condone actual incest of any sort. if you decide to read this for whatever reason, after reading the tags, just know that t'cherik is absolutely my intentional endgame. so please be kind.

    They keep Erik in a separate part of Shuri’s lab, redesigned into a part medbay, part cell for the time being. He’s unconscious for two weeks, far longer than Everett Ross - but then Erik’s injury was far more grievous than the American’s.

   When T’Challa had dragged Erik’s body to Shuri, he was nearly too late. He had died only moments later in T’Challa arms, as he begged Shuri to save the man. And she did. Shuri works hard to bring him back, coaxing life back into his body – the strength of the Black Panther tying him back to the world of the living. She heals him just enough for his body to begin the longer, more intensive process on its own – only enough that the man will hopefully wake again on his own.

   Her help had been hard won, with T’Challa’s insistence. Her mouth is constantly pressed into a thin line of disapproval as she works over his unconscious would-be murderer. He can also see the tired acceptance across the honorable line of her shoulders. Although, she isn’t afraid to constantly remind him what a ludicrous idea it is. He finds himself grateful for her honest opinion, even if it is a little irritating after some time. He tries not to be irritated though – because at least she _is_ talking to him. Okoye had protested, had said due to the nature of his crimes he did not deserve to be saved – much less redeemed. T’Challa had argued, had reasoned until she could no more than keep her opinion to herself – if not out of respect for his choices, then for his authority over her. Despite her new silence on the matter, he is still well aware that she does not approve and, oddly enough, cannot bring himself to mind. It is always good to have her watch his back.

   And Nakia, well. She left a few days to go back to her work, saying that she appreciated his proposal but that she needed to time to think over it and this newer decision to save Erik Killmonger. He doesn’t exactly high hopes for her answer on the former and her thoughts on the latter.

   T’Challa understands their reservations, he makes sure that he takes them into account and keeps them in his head with his own. He is not above being realistic about a man like Erik Killmonger. He knows that the chances of him helping him are slim and entirely dependent upon the eventual compliance of the other man. And yet, he could not leave him to die. He saw his body collapsed there, in the sunlight, and knew he could not allow the same mistakes to be repeated. He would not start his kingship with blood on his hands, nor would he not atone for the mistakes of his father. He saw Erik Killmonger for the man he was deep down. An abandoned man, wronged by his own people and cast away. He would not let him die like that.

                                                           

* * *

 

 

    Erik wakes up in the middle of night, right as T’Challa finally finds himself falling asleep. The irony of this is that it only adds to the troublesome nature that Erik has, of his own choosing as well as an inherent part of his personality that T’Challa is already all too familiar with. The alarms blare, throwing T’Challa from his room – as well as Shuri, Okoye and the two Dora Milaje that are stationed outside the doors to his quarters. They make their way in a rush to Shuri’s lab, where Erik resides now.

   Once the alarms are cut off, courtesy of Shuri, T’Challa can hear the curse that falls from Erik’s mouth before he sees him. The small, personal medbay is in quite a different state than it was before. The bed that Erik had lain on, unconscious for two weeks, is now sideways, the mattress half on top of the man himself. The small table next to the bed is knocked over as well, though it had been thankfully devoid of anything breakable. Erik shoulders the mattress off of him and then struggles to push himself up to his feet, trembling and weak. There’s a slick sheen of sweat across his forehead, skin ashen as he grits his teeth against the pain as his arms shake trying to hold up his weight. He collapses, for perhaps not the first time, and the air forces its’ way out of his chest in a pained gust of air.

   The Two guards enter the room after Okoye, who holds her spear to Erik’s back, as they right the meager furniture. She moves her spear back when Erik doesn’t move, his short dreads falling across his eyes, and assists one of the guards in pulling him up. He doesn’t struggle against their grip, too exhausted, but he does shrug them off once he’s on the bed. He presses his back against the wall, breathing heavily, eyes glancing between Okoye’s spear and the two Dora Milaje. T’Challa enters the room next, despite Shuri making to stop him and Okoye sending him a protesting glance. Erik’s gaze lands on him, confusion changing his eyes from brown to black with rage and betrayal. He takes a moment to study him, letting Erik glare back at him.

 “You were unconscious for two weeks,” T’Challa breaks the silence first, moving a few steps further into the room. “It was uncertain that you would survive.” Erik’s glare darkens, and a snarl makes it way out of his throat and onto his face.

 “I told ya to let me die, cuz. What kind of king can’t even respect a man’s dying wish?” His voice is rough like gravel from disuse and slurred, still weak from his injury, the long period of unconsciousness, and the previous struggle on the floor.

 “You must be thirsty, let me get you some water.” He moves towards the pitcher on the low table across the room before Erik can answer, unsure of how to continue. He knows his reasons are sound and that he only means to help but he cannot imagine the landmines that await. He must choose his words carefully.

 “Why the fuck am I here, man?” He raises his voice, fists clenched ineffectually on either side of him, jaw taut and face full of rage and betrayal and something that is there and gone too fast for even T’Challa to understand.

   It’s silent for several moments after, T’Challa tries to pick his words to ensure the least damage and comes up unusually short. He looks at Erik, meeting his eyes and speaking as straightforward and as honest as he possibly can,

 “I wish to help you, to atone for the mistakes of my father. I would make amends for the suffering that his actions have caused you. I also wish to use your knowledge to help other people around the world, people who have suffered as you have.” T’Challa takes a breath and tries to continue but before he can, Erik begins to laugh. The sound holds not a trace of amusement, not even on his face. It sounds bitter and full of scorn, rage flickering in the long line of his body, in the taut curve of his jaw, of his mouth.

 “Fancy way of talking around that fact that you’re fucking selfish.” He stops laughing, as abruptly as he started. “I accepted my defeat. I was ready to die, cuz, and you can’t even respect that. You want to _help_ me?” He scoffs and levels a sneer at him, gold-capped canines glinting in the artificial light. “Do me a favor then and get the fuck out.”

   T’Challa takes a half step towards him, opening his mouth to speak further, to explain himself so that Erik will understand but Erik’s voice cuts over him, low and full of intent, “I said get out, man or I swear I’ll use every last ounce of energy I got to strangle you. Maybe then someone around here will honor my fucking wishes.”

   T’Challa stops and gives Erik a short nod of acknowledgement. He waves off Okoye and the guards, turning away to leave. At the door, he hesitates and says, quietly without turning around,

 “If you need me, you may request one of the guards to get me.” Erik says nothing, so T’Challa leaves the room, closing the door behind him. He looks at him for a moment through the glass window, watches as Erik shifts over on the bed, putting his back to T’Challa and the two guards taking station outside his door. He turns away from the sight, his chest heavy with uncertainty, and faces Shuri and Okoye. Okoye says nothing and the silence is tense, filled with unsaid things. Shuri is the first to break the silence, never having been able to stand any sort of tension,

 “Well, well, well, he seemed very grateful to have been saved.” Her voice is full of sarcasm. T’Challa sighs but gives her a small, fond smile, finding that he cannot blame her. It did go awfully wrong from the moment he stepped into the room.

 “Erik is angry with me, I expected as much. Years of jealously and hatred do not change overnight.” T’Challa pauses, and glances back at the medbay, “I think we should all get some rest now and worry further in the morning.”

    They all make their way back to their quarters to collect what little sleep that they can. Even before T’Challa reaches his bed, he knows that he will not rest easy. Something in Erik Killmonger’s gaze haunts him for the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, so to make up for its a bit longer! i hope you guys enjoy, and i certainly hope that you provide any sort of feedback in the comments. don't be afraid to point out a spelling error for me, i may have missed a few! either way, enjoy!

 

 

     Erik refuses to talk to him. He refuses to talk to the counselor that T’Challa has him meet, even though he does his best to be discrete about their occupation. He refuses to look at anyone, to cooperate with anything more than eating the foods that are set in his room and taking the medicine and instructions that Shuri provides. Even then, she had argued with him for nearly a full day over it. T’Challa is not surprised by Shuri’s tenacity, even if he is surprised by her determination to keep Erik on the right path to a full recovery. He is more impressed by the fact that they argued for six hours over this and that Erik had managed to remain so stubborn for so long considering that Shuri is without a doubt the most stubborn person this side of Wakanda. It seems she has met her match.

     They bicker over everything it seems. From the food, to the bed, to the blankets, to lights and then to music. Okoye says aloud, irritation driving her away from the labs,

“I do not understand why Shuri does not simply ignore him. Constantly bickering, like children!” She stalks away before T’Challa can question her further.

     They never bicker in front of him. Erik staunchly refuses to acknowledge his existence ever since he threatened T’Challa out of his room, weak as a new born kitten. He tries not to feel envy and fails. Then he does his best not to let it show to others, because they will ask questions that he cannot answer yet.

 

* * *

 

 

     He finds that as the days go on and turn into weeks without a word between him and the man down in Shuri’s lab, it gets harder to fall asleep. The mistakes of the past haunt him and mock him for saving Erik Killmonger only to imprison him against his will. He wakes up one night, gasping for air, after a particularly vivid dream of him leaving Erik to die, scattering his ashes into the ocean without honor. He can’t fall back asleep, so he slips on a loose tunic over his sleep wear and heads down to the man that haunts him.

     He allows his footsteps to echo down the hall before him, alerting the other man and his two guards to his presence in advance. With a simple nod and dismissive shake of his head, he lets the guard take leave of their duty - if only for a few moments. Regardless, he knows that they will not stray far enough that they will not be able to react to any signs of danger.

     The light in the room is on, a visible indicator that its’ only occupant is awake.

     Although, T’Challa suspects that even without the light, he would still be able to tell - his instincts and senses are too finely sharpened for any deception of that sort. He stops, a sudden and startling hesitance overtaking him before he enters. He knows he is not welcome. He takes a breath, allows himself to feel the emotion before he pushes it away and makes his way through the door into Erik’s room.

     Erik isn’t asleep, and neither does he pretend to be. He’s reading, sitting up with his back against the wall. His hair is a mess, his jaw is lined with stubble that threatens to grow into a patchy, rough-looking beard. But he looks healthier. Shuri’s medication and nutrition plan is working, not that he possessed any doubts of her ability. He pretends that the worry he feels easing off his shoulders was nonexistent in the first place.

     Erik looks up from his book and they make eye contact, not for the first time - but this is the first in which his gaze does not hold immediate ire. It takes its’ rightful place only a moment later, flanked by exhaustion. He looks back down at the pages of his book, although he doesn’t read. T’Challa is the first to break the tense silence, again, keeping his voice low and soft,

 “I wish to apologize.” Erik tenses immediately, body as still as a stone. “I wish to atone, I wish to help the world because Wakanda possesses the tools to do so. We are making plans to do as you spoke of,” T’Challa insists, begging silently with his own eyes that Erik will respond.

He does look up at him again, letting the words drop into the air between them. His expression is closed off, hiding everything behind a wall of anger and hatred.

 “Nah, man, you’ve got it backwards. I wanted violence. I wanted to watch my people rise up and destroy the colonizers.” He sneers at T’Challa, leaning forward as his voice becomes intense, full of righteousness, of spite, “I didn’t want to sing fuckin’ kumbaya and build daisy chains.”

T’Challa holds his gaze, unafraid of the emotions that flash in Erik’s eyes. He takes them all in and tries to see past them.

 “I know.” He says, finally, taking a short step forward. Erik stills, fingers gripping around the book. “They remade you as their weapon, so you want to use their methods to destroy them - but you are better than that. I know you are.”

Erik gives him that bitter laugh again, shaking his head. He sets his book down, folds over a corner to mark his place as he gives T’Challa his full attention.

 “Hate to be a cliché, but you really don’t know shit about me, cuz, and you ain’t about to. I don’t want nothing to do with your peace talks and your therapists.”

 “Why not?” T’Challa asks, earnest. Erik blinks at him. He looks… confused, almost, for a second. T’Challa presses forward, taking another step into the room, closer to him, “What stops you from letting us learn more about each other? So, you choose not to speak to others who wish to help you, I cannot force you to talk to them nor do I particularly wish to. I simply want to talk, to get to know you and learn your struggle, and perhaps help - “

 “Shut the fuck up right now,” Erik cuts him off, words forced out through gritted teeth. T’Challa stops, the rage radiating from the other man pressing him into stillness.

 “Erik- “

 “No, I said shut up. You- you’re such a fucking hypocrite with that bullshit. You can’t make me choose? You already chose for me,” he gestures at the room, seething, “you decided your guilt was more important that what _I_ fucking wanted. What _I_ chose. I didn’t want to be put in a little shitty cage, it doesn’t matter what way you dress it up, cuz. That’s what this is. A fucking two-by-four prison cell. You don’t get to know me. You don’t deserve the fucking right.” He’s shaking, fists clenched on either side of him, jaw taut enough to cut glass. “Get out. Get the fuck out and _stay out_. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

     T’Challa leaves again, uncertain how to continue and move forward when Erik seems intent on shutting him out – of burning all the bridges that he is trying to build between them. He is only trying to help, but it seems that every step he makes in attempt to begin righting the wrongs between them only further infuriates the man. It only seems to build walls around them until T’Challa is hopelessly lost.

 

* * *

 

 

     He tries two more times within the week to communicate as openly and honestly as he can with Erik about his intentions and plans – yet each time is met with ire and screaming until he’s riled up into an argument with no certainty of how he wound up screaming back. On the third try, he stomps out of the room with as much grace as he can muster – feeling childish satisfaction at the way the door closes with a heavy thud behind him. He feels ashamed immediately. He stops and goes to turn around, to apologize to Erik and conduct himself in a manner that is appropriate of a man his age and stature – when Shuri’s low whistle stops him in place.

 “Perhaps you should leave him alone for a while,” He turns around to see her sitting at her desk, spinning idly on her stool and tossing little candies into her mouth. He walks over to her and leans against the desk next her, shoulders slumping as he admits,

 “We have been at each other’s throats since morning…” he pauses and rubs at his neck, “I did not want to leave on these terms again.” She hums and chews on another candy, forehead creased with thought.

 “I think you are approaching this all wrong.” She finally says, turning to face him. He looks at her, feels an eyebrow twitch its’ way upwards. She holds up her hand before he can say anything and continues, “Erik Killmonger is not a man who understands _talk._ He is, unfortunately, a man of action. Despite his wishes to not be healed – and a few times where he has been outright rude to me with his abysmal opinion of what is _‘good music’_ – he seems to have been relatively calm.” She pauses and seems to take a moment to consider her next words before barreling on, “You two truly clash but perhaps you are not as different as you want to think. You are honest and sincere, you always have been – and although Erik is not, you possess many of the same annoying traits. You both value action above all else and Erik will never believe you to be genuine with your words until your actions correspond.”

     T’Challa lets her words sink in. Shuri seems to have a point, not that T’Challa is surprised. He is well versed with diplomacy and would much prefer peace to war, but it seems that they may possess similar qualities that can help bridge the gap between them. T’Challa turns to her, crossing his arms over his chest as he muses aloud,

 “Actions are better than words,” he feels his brows draw down in concentration as he continues, “Then the first action needs to be the most important – more important and wanted than saving his life.” Shuri hums to herself, beginning to fidget idly on her chair again as she thinks with him. They are silent for a mere 30 seconds before Shuri brightens and snaps her fingers,

 “I know what you must do!” He looks at her, trying not to let his own excitement show at her enthusiasm.

 “Well, go on?” She stands up and begins pacing, arms crossed behind her back, her mind whirring already with what must surely be a good plan.

 “The necklace that he had, the one that helped you identify him – it belonged to N’Jobu.” T’Challa nods, feeling himself lean forward,

 “Yes, it was taken from him when he was brought before me in the throne room.” Shuri stops and faces him,

 “Exactly! So, we should give it back – more importantly, _you_ should give it back!”

T’Challa stands up, suddenly uncertain.

 “Is that the right step to take? What if it only infuriates him further?” Shuri shakes her head and approaches him,

 “You misunderstand, you haven’t seen what I have. He has nightmares,” she pauses and glances over her shoulder to where the room resides, hidden behind another hallway and wall away from them. “Awful nightmares that make him scream and so I was down here one night and I went to check on him. As soon as he heard the door he woke up and reached for his neck – like he was trying to grab the necklace but…” She trails off, face contorting into uncomfortable sympathy.

 “But he does not possess it any longer.” T’Challa finishes for her. Shuri nods, collecting herself again. T’Challa smiles at her, unable to help himself. “I will give him back the necklace. Thank you for your advice. I would have spoken to you sooner had I known that you understand Erik far more than even I.”

Shuri scoffs and walks back over to her desk, sitting down at her stool and setting to work again.

“You should listen to me more often, I am the smart one after all.” T’Challa laughs as he makes his way out of the labs, feeling more lighthearted than he felt when he came, and callsover his shoulder,

 “I think you will regret advising me, once everyone knows your counseling skills they’ll never leave you to work in peace again.” He hears Shuri sputter in disbelief – as well as her own choked off laugh – and smiles to himself as he sets his path to retrieve the necklace.

 

* * *

 

 

            It takes some time for him to plan it perfectly. After more thought, he realizes that Erik would never accept the necklace back if it were directly handed to him by T’Challa – no matter how honest his intentions are. He would simply believe that T’Challa wished to use the necklace as leverage – and to be fair, T’Challa knows that he would think the same if the situation were reversed.

            So, he waits until Shuri takes him out of his room under the guise of a more thorough ‘checkup’ and sneaks in. He places the necklace, wrapped up in a simple black cloth, under his pillow and knows that Erik will spot the difference in his bed immediately. He’s in and out before Erik is gone for even 5 minutes, trying to contain a satisfied smile to himself.

            It is much harder to contain the hope in his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey here's a new chapter, finally! sorry that it's a bit shorter than the previous one, it's been an unfortunately busy week for me! i hope you guys enjoy, the pacing is giving me a bit of challenge so let me know what you think! things might be picking up a bit more speed ohoho??

     T’Challa does not visit Erik for the next week. He has several meetings to attend to about the new outreach program and even more long, exhausting discussions about which resources will be used - as well as how much and what is his expected budget on this program. He tries not to feel as if he’s using them as an excuse to avoid seeing the other man. He retires to his rooms every night, drained and not willing to speak another word if he can help it.

     Diplomacy is a skill that he has spent a long-time learning, it is a necessary skill that one must have to be a king. Despite knowing how important of a skill it is, and knowing that he is quite good at it, he is still allowed to hate it. Privately, within the confines of his own mind.

     It does not chafe at his skin as it used to, but there are times when he wishes that he could be able to take action without having to practice a long-winded speech about his intentions and motivations and a thousand other things that must be handled with a fast mind and the right words. He can understand the ire that Erik felt when T’Challa had tried to approach him that way and finds himself amused, if not a little apologetic, at the irony.

     He finally makes his way one evening to Shuri’s labs, after a long day of too many meetings and not enough time in the day to solve all the issues that are brought to him. He knows logically that he is not alone, that he has the council to aid him - but convincing them to change their ways is a battle fought up hill. Today’s meetings were no different. In fact, they were possibly even troublesome - seeing as they discussed what to do with Erik Killmonger. It had been a long, heated discussion. The meeting weighs heavily in his thoughts, even as they had moved on to other topics.

     He nods to the Dora guarding Erik’s room, dismissing them as he knocks on the door to Erik’s room. He pauses for a minute and when no greeting comes, neither in welcome or anger, he opens the door and steps inside.

     Erik must have just finished some kind of small work out, because his shoulders are lined with sweat. He can see the sleek reflection of it off of the uniform scars that line his shoulders - but then he’s immediately distracted by the gold flash around his neck. _N’Jobu’s necklace._ He only manages a quick glance at the way the ring sits perfectly in the middle of his chest, his newest scar still healing underneath it before Erik pulls on a shirt in one smooth motion. They make eye contact when Erik turns to pick up a bottle water and T’Challa finds his practiced greeting dying in his throat.

     He did not think this far ahead. He snuck the necklace into his room and did not for one second think of how to approach the man after that moment. With all the meetings and long nights spent wondering what to do with the man whilst avoiding him, he has backed himself into a corner.

     Erik breaks the intense stare first, leaning back against the nightstand and taking a long drink of water. T’Challa moves his eyes away from his face - to anywhere else, because anywhere else _has_ to be safer than whatever is hidden behind the blank mask and finds them landing on the strong line of his throat as he swallows the water. Erik sets the water bottle down on the table behind him. The room is warm. T’Challa looks away again and clears his throat, desperately trying to think of something to say now that he’s clearly called for Erik’s attention,

 “I have spoken to the council about you.” He can see Erik shift, can feel it in the air between them - the sudden mounting tension. He inclines his head, silently offering T’Challa to continue. It is honestly the most courteous the man has ever been to T’Challa that it nearly makes him forgot his newly discovered words once more.

 “I made it clear to them that I would not allow execution or torture of any kind, I refuse to begin my kingship with even further bloodshed.”

The words drop into the air, like rain drops. He can hear every breath that Erik takes. T’Challa waits. He waits for an outburst, for anger, for Erik to aggravate him into another squabble. He waits with even breaths, keeping his body as relaxed as possible and still, he feels himself twitch just slightly when Erik speaks,

 “You already know my opinion on being caged, cuz.” T’Challa looks over to him and scoffs, nodding once.

 “I am well aware, yes.” Something in Erik’s face twitches, he thinks it might be a flash of amusement, but he cannot be certain because it is immediately blocked by a harder front of anger. He continues, “The council and I have been discussing that as well. I am hoping that they will come to a fair decision that will allow you to regain your freedom - but also ensure that my people are safe.”

Erik’s eyebrow raises, a purely skeptical look transforming his harsh features.

“What does that mean? Y’all gonna make me your slave or something? I’m allowed _‘freedom’_ but only with four guards and a firing squad at the ready? If you think I’m gonna - “

T’Challa holds his hand up to stop him. He’s surprised that Erik listens, even as he stands away from his previous relaxed lean, fuming with rising ire.

“We do not partake in slavery, nor will we make an exception to that rule for you.” T’Challa begins, making eye contact with Erik and holding it, “When I say that there will be no execution, there will be _none._ If you willfully continue to harm others, then you will be imprisoned in a worse room than this. My hope is that with time, and with help, you will be able to find peace. If not with me, then with the world. That is all I want - and I am willing to work my hardest to make that happen, but I will not break my back doing so if you continue to stand in your own way.”

     Erik looks stunned - eyes almost wider as he takes in the words. There is the anger too, but, then, he is always angry. T’Challa is learning to almost cast it aside, in the hopes that he can find the other emotions lurking just beneath. When a full minute passes in silence and Erik looks away, slouching away from him to the bed, T’Challa turns to take his leave. He’s nearly out the door when he hears Erik mumble,

 “You’re a real piece a’ work, man.” He turns to look back at him and finds Erik gazing at him, brows drawn and one hand fiddling with the necklace. He cannot help the small smirk as he replies,

 “I could say the same to you. Goodnight.”

He doesn’t stop again, even as he hears Erik scoff to himself.

His steps feel lighter as he walks back to his rooms.

Hope is a dangerous beast, prowling through the cavity of his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heeellooo, sorry for the long wait but here i am with a new chapter and a new perspective! it took me a long while to really get the hang of this chapter and i didnt wanna rush it and put out something that i wasnt confident with.  
> anyway, i hope you guys enjoy and thank you if youve stuck around and waited! much love <3  
> also ive created a tumblr account based around erik killmonger!! it's erikjkillmonger.tumblr.com and please excuse the ugly ass theme im still working on it! it isnt my main blog so if you send me something on there, i might not reply right away, but feel free to send me asks or messages!!

        Erik hates a lot of things. He hates 99.97% of the music on the radios in America – and even around the world. He hates traffic, he hates politics, he hates colonizers. He hates _T’Challa_ and all the stupid things he says. He hates this stupid fucking prison cell. He hates that he wakes up and doesn’t know what time it is, doesn't know what day it is but knows that it's been weeks. That he wakes up in the middle of the night on a too-soft bed, throat raw from screaming, hand reaching for the necklace around his throat only to remember that it’s gone. It’s gone _forever,_ and he’ll never get it back. He hates that the fucking most. He feels stuffed up to the brim with some nameless emotion until he’s shaking with it, one hand gripping at the sheets until they tear, the other hand pressed over his mouth to keep himself from screaming more.

       The nightmares change. He dreams of his father in that apartment, dreams of conversations he never got the chance to have. He forces himself awake before the end each time and paces around the cell. Eventually, he stops going to sleep. He paces back and forth every night instead, reciting old army rules in his head to keep himself awake. He’s so damn exhausted, unable to focus and his memory starts to glitch like he’s some broken computer. Shuri notices and for some stupid reason decides to argue with him until he flat out ignores her. It’s none of her business, he doesn’t give a fuck if he’s ‘endangering’ his health. It’s his goddamn right to do whatever the fuck he wants with his body.

        They argue for another four days before she slips some kind of sedative in his water. He tastes it immediately but it’s too late to spit it out, and he’s got no idea what it is or how to counter it. When he wakes up, he feels better than he has in a while, but anger quickly rises to the surface. He screams and punches at the walls until his knuckles are raw and blood drips onto the floor from his fists. Anything is better than the terrifying feeling of helplessness growing under his skin like a plague.

        After that, he refuses food for what might be three days, or might be four. He throws the food tray at the door and snarls at anyone who threatens to step foot in his little cell. He destroys the furniture and doesn’t let them replace it. His hands swell and scab over until Shuri has two guards force him still so someone can apply a healing salve and bandages to them. Eventually, T’Challa comes to visit, pleading with eyes and voice in an effort to get him to eat. Erik riles him up every single time until they’re yelling back and forth and T’Challa stomps out of the room. He feels smug satisfaction every single time, even as the walls close in.

        A week goes by and he doesn’t eat. He stumbles and falls, hits his head on something. He wakes up and his body feels better, which means Shuri took advantage of his lack of consciousness. He tries to feel angry enough to move, but he’s still too fucking exhausted.  He’d hate her so much if he could spare the time to even bother thinking about her. He mostly hates how Wakanda has the most advanced medicine in the world, how Wakanda has everything and they’ve done nothing to protect the rest of the world from the shitty white people in power. He seethes, lets that old familiar hatred keep him warm as he drifts off to sleep.

        When Shuri enters the room later on that day – or night or evening, it’s not like Erik knows the difference – he’s fully prepared to ignore her. He doesn’t argue with her like he does with T’Challa, because she’s too smart to get riled up by the shit he says. It’s annoying. She shuffles her feet, an odd sign of awkwardness and she waits until Erik looks at her before she speaks, chin tilted proudly upwards,

 “I’m sorry for sedating you.  I understand that it is an invasion of your privacy and will, but I will do what is necessary to keep you alive.” Erik stares at her, the apology throwing him for a loop. He doesn’t say anything and her composure falters, forcing her to look away.

 “I said I am sorry, I mean it. I will not promise to do it again if I see it as a necessary precaution, but I would prefer you not to be stupid.” Erik scoffs at her, shocked by the sheer set of balls on this young woman. She smirks at him and asks, crossing her arms across her chest, “Is that an agreement?”

        He rolls his eyes and nods after a second of hesitation, agreeing if only to get her away from him. He’s left alone again after that. T’Challa doesn’t visit.

 

* * *

 

        The dreams become more vivid, until he’s not sure what is real – the regret in his father’s eyes, or the white bland walls surrounding him. As the dreams get worse, the insomnia gets worse. He sleeps less and less, and when he does sleep, he dreams. He wakes up several nights, screaming and sobbing, reaching for his father’s necklace and only grasping at the skin on his chest.

        He knows the guards outside his door can hear him those nights. He’s aware that Shuri has been down in the lab and has heard him scream. He’s heard her footsteps approaching her door and has had to bite down on his fist to keep himself quiet.  Some nights he gets up and paces the room, lets the rage overwhelm until he’s screaming and punching walls again.

        He’s lost count of the days. Of how many times he’s destroyed everything in the room only to have it fixed and reset again. He’s forgotten how many times the blood from his fists has covered the walls, only to watch it be washed away again. The walls get closer and the helplessness rises until it’s choking around his throat.

        He wonders if he’ll ever sleep again without dreaming of his father. He thinks it’s fucked up that he’s so afraid of the man in his dreams now. He wonders what it says about him that he’s too scared to face him. _Coward._ He wonders if he’ll ever get his father’s necklace back.  

        Maybe he’ll never get it back. He wonders at how the thought fills himself with a harsher grief than he could ever imagine. His eyes sting and he wonders if that’s the least of what he deserves.

 

* * *

 

 

        Shuri takes him out of the lab one evening for a full body scan. He doesn’t listen to her explanation, doesn’t really care. He’s mostly relieved to be out of his cell for a little while, even if he’s stuck who knows how many meters below the surface. He’s surrounded by five guards and Shuri, who he’s positive is wary enough around him that she has at least five pieces of technology that can knock him out around her. The Dora Milaje around him are tense, prepared for him to try something to escape. He thinks about it for a moment, imagines it realistically. There would be a small chance of him reaching the exit to the lab, and even smaller chance of him making past that to outside the entire building. The odds are _not_ in his fucking favor. So, he doesn’t try anything. He simply stands as relaxed as possible and moves only when Shuri directs him to.

      It takes maybe an hour, maybe more, and then they lead him to the baths and he’s allowed enough time to bathe in relative privacy.

      The heavy door clicks quietly into its latch behind him after he’s escorted into his room, and he immediately stills. His instincts, honed after consuming that heart-shaped flower, picks up on a scent. It’s familiar but masked somehow and he shifts, looking around the room. He can sense a disturbance in the air and knows that someone was in the cell recently. His skin twitches at the feeling of displacement, something in the room has been shifted without his knowledge of when or where. He paces around the room, checking the corners and under the small table by the bed, and under the bed itself. It’s there that he notices the shape under the pillow. It’s a lump under the messy blankets and sheets, the only reason he didn’t spot it instantly. He picks up the pillow and then the small black, velvet soft bag. It’s heavier than he expects, a substantial weight in his palm. He feels the fabric, hears the soft clink of metal that sets his heart racing for some reason he can’t focus on at the moment.

       He rips the bag open and turns it over, pouring the necklace into his waiting palm. _His father’s necklace._ He sinks down, a sudden weight bearing down on his shoulders, and his knees hit the ground. He feels shaken down to his goddamn bones, feels that old ache in his chest sharpening until he can’t breathe but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It doesn’t matter that his hands shake so badly that he has to try three times before he’s successful in securing the necklace around his neck. It doesn’t matter that he has to bite back a relieved sob at the weight of hit on his chest.

       He crawls onto the bed and curls up with his back to the wall, holding the ring in his closed fist until its warm in his grip. He pushes his emotions down with each deep breath and refuses to sink any lower. He’s got his father’s necklace back and nothing else matters. His only focus now can be to finally fucking escape. Forget trying to be king, forget destroying T’Challa. He doesn’t care anymore – all he wants is the anonymity of the cities in the rest of the world and his freedom back.

 

 

* * *

       

       Erik thinks it's late the next time T'Challa visits him, for the first time in what might be a week or more. Maybe it's only been two days, but how is  _he_ supposed to know when the days are passing? The room feels too small with T'Challa staring at him, staring at the necklace with some unreadable look on his face. He thought in the beginning that T'Challa was easy, an open fuckin' book to anyone with big enough puppy-dog eyes. He's starting to realize that he's wrong. He tries to listen to the words that T'Challa speaks at him but he's exhausted. 

       He's too exhausted to keep the anger up, so he finds himself almost smiling at T'Challa's sarcasm, feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards until he forces it back. He tries to focus then, on the conversation, tries to force them into the same pattern - if only to get it over with, if only to be alone again. T'Challa spits some words about helping him again, about peace ' _with the world'_ , whatever the fuck that means. The words catch him off guard and the sleep deprivation drains him so much that he doesn't bother hiding it. How does T'Challa say those things with a straight face? It's ridiculous, it's dumb - it's mind boggling. Part of him is irritated as usual by the man's relentlessness, but another smaller part is almost... _desperate_ for the words to be true. He tries to crush it down and mumbles, more to himself as he stares at T'Challa's back, 

 "You're a real piece a' work, man." Something in his chest aches at T'Challa's small smirk and he tries not to let it haunt him when he goes to sleep that night. 

       Luck really isn't on his side, because he isn't successful. 

 

* * *

 

 

       The days pass again. He sleeps and dreams of his father every night. He wakes up, gasping for air – feeling like he’s choking under the weight of his father’s necklace and holds onto the ring until he feels steady again. Erik isn’t sure how many days have passed. He isn’t sure when T’Challa is going visit him again, or what his next step is in his stupid little plan to rehabilitate Erik.

        He asks the guards what day it is each morning, and they ignore him. He wonders what it would take to provoke them into breaking their King’s little “no harm no foul” rule. He wonders if he could push them far enough that they’ll fight him, and he’ll have a chance to take one of their weapons. It’s certainly worth a shot.

        He’s thinking about trying something, about riling them up on some random day after he’s eaten what might be breakfast or might be lunch. He’s been planning before bed, strategizing and recalling the routes that he memorized when he was King for those short few days. He’s beginning to doze off when a knock on the door forces him fully awake. He sits up on his bed, staring at the door. _T’Challa._ He’s the only person who knocks, like Erik isn’t trapped in a poorly disguised prison cell. Erik doesn’t reply to it, shifting on his bed until he’s laying sideways across it, his head and shoulders propped up against the wall. He fights down the weird urge to fidget and instead waits, hearing the knob turn after nearly a minute.

        T’Challa enters the room and nods at him in greeting, looking wary. Erik meets his gaze and watches as he looks away first, eyes landing down where the necklace rests openly on his chest above his shirt. Something in his gaze shifts and turns unreadable again, which is _still_  frustrating for Erik. He’s always been good at reading people, but T’Challa – for all that he projects an open and honest nature – is nearly impossible to read. Even his anger is complex in and of itself, but he ignores that thought.

        Instead, he watches his gaze lock onto the ring and stay there. He doesn’t say anything and neither does Erik, refusing to talk first. So, that means they wait in silence until T’Challa physically shakes himself out of whatever weird as fuck trance he was in. He doesn't get the man's weird obsession with staring at the necklace all of a sudden. He's the one who gave it back in the first place.

_He looks tired_ , Erik begrudgingly notes, with bags around his eyes and his stubble messy around the normally clean-shaven lines. It must be pretty late then, judging by the tiredness that lines the other man’s face in the harsh lighting. He also isn’t wearing his usual fancy asshole robes. He’s traded them for something softer, like maybe pajamas. Erik tries to pretend that he isn’t grasping at straws for some sense of time, but that’s definitely what he’s doing. It’s an irritating habit that he’s picked up while being trapped. The Dora Milaje never show any signs and Shuri is probably as bright and chipper at 3 am as she is at 3 pm. Whatever, it doesn’t really matter.

       T’Challa makes eye contact with Erik again, steel in his face and eyes as he says in a quiet but commanding voice,

“I want you to pay attention to the words I am speaking and understand them to be the truth.”

        Erik finds himself intrigued, body naturally wanting to shift closer to hear whatever nonsense T’Challa wants to spout at him this time. Last time the dude was chock full of some wishy-washy self-healing stuff. He almost allows himself to shift from his prone position and has to beat back that urge. He stops the instinct that wants to listen, a trait beaten into him by the military. Something he’s successfully fought down for a long time. He sneers at him, settling more comfortably. He doesn’t bother saying anything, he knows T’Challa can read the rejection loud and clear.

       Instead of rising up to the bait, T’Challa rolls his eyes. Doesn’t so much as even bother to get all fussy about the clear disrespect that Erik projects, and instead sits in the chair opposite of the bed.

“Whatever you may believe my intentions to be, I do genuinely wish to see you free of this room.” He looks down at his hands, the ring that sits at home on his finger. Its brother sits on the chain around Erik’s chest, warmed by the heat of his palms late at night.

“I spoke to the council at more length about your rehabilitation. It was a difficult discussion, but after consideration, they are willing to give you to extend you a chance. Only this one chance. If you cooperate, if you talk to a psychologist and allow them to help you, you may gain your freedom. That is their condition, amongst others.”

Erik bores holes into T’Challa’s face with his gaze until T’Challa finally looks at him again. “Please, allow them to help you, if you will not allow me.”

Erik looks away first, fists clenching in the bed sheets, trying to find something to say that isn’t pathetic or full of all the rage that sits inside him.

 “What are the other conditions?” He finally asks, voice sounding bitter even to himself. T’Challa seems relieved, judging by the breath he takes before he speaks.

 “A tracker. It is a design that Shuri patented herself. A bracelet that locks around your wrist and tracks your whereabouts and health status.” He doesn’t say anything after that, waiting for Erik to reply. Erik grinds his teeth, feeling a headache building behind his eyes,

 “That all it do, cuz?” He sees T’Challa shake his head out of the corner of his sight.

“It possesses the ability to incapacitate you, a simple code is input by the bracelet’s controller.” Erik finally looks at T’Challa again, feeling nausea and rage building up in the base of his throat.

 “Who gonna be in charge then? _You?_ Your little body guards?” He sits up, feeling his face contort in rage, snarling, “I’m not some fucking dog to be leashed.”

        T’Challa doesn’t look shocked by Erik’s rage. He looks almost... sad. And expectant, like he knew that Erik would be angry. He tries not to feel even more irritated. Seems like T’Challa has no problem reading Erik, when he remains a closed book to him. T’Challa shakes his head again, slower this time - like he’s talking to a spooked animal. It makes Erik want to claw at his throat, makes him want to punch him until he’s too fucked up to look at him like that.

 “No, Erik, I will not control the bracelet. It is not right, considering the issues between us.” He gives him what’s supposed to be a reassuring smile, he assumes. It makes him angrier. “Shuri will be the one controlling it.”

That admission takes him off guard just long enough to ask,

“Why _her?”_ T’Challa shrugs, the gesture making him look young and effortless.

 “It seems to be a wise choice. She has socialized with you most frequently and she has a level head when it concerns your risk to others and yourself.” He smirks at Erik for a brief moment before he turns serious again.

“So, will you agree to these conditions?” Erik stares at him for a second longer before looking away again. Twice now he’s looked away first. Even that small submission is enough to rise vomit in his throat. He feels unsettled but he sees the chance that is being presented to him. Practically _gift-wrapped. A chance to escape._ He can feel excitement in the tips of his fingers at the prospect of freedom, of a chance to earn trust and destroy it.

         He weighs the pros and cons and weighs them once more. Once he gets their guards down, metaphorically and physically, he can escape. He’ll figure out how to get the bracelet off, figure out the perfect route and time and then, then he’ll be free again.

         He feels hope somewhere in his chest and crushes it down, reminds himself that submitting to T’Challa – for even a short amount of time – is part of the plan. He knows it’ll annoy him to no end, but it’s the only way. His only chance. He forces all the emotions deep down into himself, where he can’t feel them anymore and forces himself to nod to T’Challa’s question. He meets the man’s gaze again, face devoid of anything and everything and forces the words aloud, knowing that one day he’ll be free of this stupid small cage and the man that sits across from him,

 “Alright, cuz. I’ll do it.”


End file.
